December Challenge of Awesomeness
by Alosha135
Summary: . . . as organized by Hades Lord of the Dead. A series of drabbles, short stories, etc. for random prompts assigned by other writers in the fandom. The first chapter is actually Chapter 33 of my Drabbles from the London Fog series, due to reasons. I have no idea what's going to turn up (all depends on the prompt) so I'm rating it T to be safe. Read, review, drink cocoa and enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

**I've decided to make the December challenges a different thread than my regular drabbles. The first of these challenges is going to remain in the regular series because I already posted it, so if you're looking for that one it's Chapter 33. Today's prompt is:**

**Wordwielder (hullo m'dear, huge fan) - Holmes and Watson are on the case when it starts snowing**

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It was not quite November. The world was dreary and overcast, with a biting cold to the air that made most sensible people stay indoors. In London the shelter of buildings blocked most of the wind and the snow was ground to slush under foot and carriage. The country was another story: wind howled vengefully, sweeping its ice-laden gown along the frosted ground. Snow blanketed the earth in a mantle of pure, muffling white, rendering everything eerily still and similar. Dr. Watson thought the landscape was beautiful - white-laden trees with stark black branches, delicately frozen leaves, decorative icicles. Holmes thought that the snow would make for excellent tracking, if it didn't blow too hard or fall too fast. It would have been easier, and quicker, to take a carriage, but he couldn't risk losing a clue. So the two of them tramped along through knee-deep drifts and cunningly hidden patches of ice. With any luck their footprints would be left for the police to follow. If not they would have a rather uncomfortable time holding up the murderer whose trail they now pursued. Watson patted his revolver reflexively and Holmes, catching the gesture, smiled grimly.

At last the barren view gave way to a copse of trees and a decrepit house. The chimney, which along with the rest of the structure had obviously seen better days, leaked smoke into the dark sky. The pair did not have to speak to know what they must do. Holmes went first, creeping along as stealthily as it was possible to be against that unforgiving background. Watson followed, keeping his hand close to his gun just in case. They found the door of the house shut tight against the cold but not bolted. It creaked open, revealing a dank passage. Somewhere deep inside the house released the murmur of voices and a dim echo of heat. The doctor drew his gun, the detective steeled his wits, and they went onwards.

" - blinkin' loony," muttered a man's voice just around the corner. "Fink you've got what it takes to outsmart the p'lice, do ya? Heh. Bloody fool." The same man replied, "Oy! I 'ent failed yet. An' s'not my fault they called in that detective chap. You never said nuffin 'bout 'im!"

Watson tighted his grip on the firearm and exchanged a nod with Holmes. The two of them burst through the door ready for a fight. They very nearly got one. The man inside, a ragged specimen who could do with a wash, rose to his feet with a screech of dismay. This was followed by several loud and extremely vocal protests of innocence and many vicious curses. Holmes caught the villain as he lifted a hand to swing. The murderer writhed, shrieking. After a few moments the volume came down somewhat and Dr. Watson was able to make out the words. It appeared to be a conversation between the killer and some imaginary person possibly existing inside his head. Holmes caught his glance and shrugged. Between them they kept the creature pinned until the much-abused door creaked once more and the heavy tread of constables was heard in the hall.

"In here, lads," called Watson. "We've got him."

The constables and their local inspector burst through the door. The killer was handcuffed, read his rights, and hustled out the door before anything more was said (unless you counted his own deranged ramblings). Holmes, the doctor, and the bewildered but grateful inspector followed. Only then did Watson relax and holster his revolver. The inspector was busily writing notes on a pad of paper in response to whatever Holmes was telling him. It was cold, Watson was tired, and he found himself entirely fed up with the whole affair. So he did the only logical thing he could think of: picked up a handful of snow, packed it, and threw it straight into Holmes's head. Assailant then found that he barely had time to duck as his target's own missile sailed past him. The inspector goggled as the pair raced around, hurling snow and shouting comradely insults.

It was two very tired, winded, snow-encrusted men that returned to the inn that evening, satisfied with a neatly solved case and even more satisfied with a delightful snowball fight. They had even gotten one of the constables involved, though only when the inspector wasn't looking. They sat by a cheerily blazing fire. Holmes smoked his pipe and looked thoughtful; Watson scribbled avidly, chuckling to himself every now and then.

"What shall I call this one, Holmes? The Adventure of the Balford Lunatic, perhaps?"

Holmes chuckled. "More like the Adventure of the Balford Snowballers."

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**Note: no, Balford is not a real place. I made it up because I'm too lazy to get out my map of England and find a suitable town.**

**For some reason I had difficulty with this prompt - too many possibilities, and nothing that really struck my fancy. But, I'm reasonably satisfied with this and it's late, so I'm just going to post it and hope you all forgive me. Review! You know how much I love it ^_^**


	2. Charlie

**3 December's prompt is another from Madam'zelleGiry: a man like a patch of black ice**

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He had cold, dark, endless eyes. If it was true that eyes were a window to the soul, his would reveal that he didn't have one. The man wore his dark hair slicked back, every bit as smooth and oily as he was. His face might have been handsome, if not for those cruel empty eyes. A hint of beard grew around the tight, thin-lipped mouth with a kind of off-hand disregard that all too many found attractive. His clothes were of the night: deep grey, harsh black, like suits tailored of expensive shadow. Charlie always thought of fire when he saw those clothes. It was appropriate; everything this man touched crumbled and turned to soot. Not that Charlie said so to his face - this man was dangerous, and it was never wise to insult an employer with a knife.

Charlie did not bother bemoaning his fate anymore, even to himself. He could not have been smarter or more careful; he knew now that it wouldn't have mattered if he was. This man was like a patch of black ice - slick and dark and deceptive. Once he had dragged you down, there was no hope of getting up.

For his part, Charlie no longer even tried. It was too bad about his mum, though - she did not deserve this kind of pain.

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**This is a bit obscure, sorry. For those of you who have read Drabbles from the London Fog, you know that Charlie is the son I gave Mrs. Hudson. Someday I *will* write that continuation. Or not . . . sigh. Anyway, I hope you like it :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**First of all, I would like to say that the amount of reviews I have gotten has been absolutely amazing! Thank you to everyone who took the time to give their opinion, and merry writing! Today's prompt comes from Sparky Dorian: an unwelcome visitor.**

**Let's see how Holmes and Mrs. Hudson react when Watson brings home a kitten. A/N: This is waaaaay longer than I thought it would be. If you make it all the way through, please review ^_^**

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The kitten's arrival was heralded by a mew, so soft it could barely be heard. Dr. Watson probably would have missed it entirely if he hadn't been standing directly inside the door, putting on his coat. When he opened the door a tiny bundle of bedraggled orange fluff meowed plaintively and wound itself around his feet. He chuckled and bent to stroke the tiny creature's back. Its ribs were nearly visible even through the fuzz.

"Too cold for a little thing like you to be wandering about, isn't it?" he murmured. The kitten purred softly in agreement, evidently finding the doctor's soothing hands agreeable. He left it, with a touch of regret, curled up on the stoop.

The cat was soon forgotten, however, in his usual round of patients and worries. Several children had caught the influenza, and while it was still early in the season he feared they might not be strong enough to recover. Their parents were almost worse off than the little ones; they worried themselves to death over every cough and sneeze. He spent a good several hours reassuring various clients and offering them instructions to make the sick more comfortable. By the time he returned to Baker Street it was late afternoon and Dr. Watson was worn out physically and emotionally. So it was no surprise that when he saw that little ball of fur still curled up pitifully next to the door he didn't have the heart to leave it out in the wind and sleet. The kitten was cold to the touch but it still had life in it, and blinked its green eyes when he tucked it into his jacket.

First things first: the kitten would need a bath, a bowl of milk, and a name. The bath he took care of first. Surprisingly, the little creature didn't protest as it was lowered into a basin of warm water. Perhaps it was too tired, or else the heat was welcome after the bitterness of outside. As he toweled the orange fluff Watson thought of names. How did one go about christening a cat, anyway? No dignified name seemed proper for the squeaking ball that he currently held. Eventually he settled on Gladstone. He had always thought that if he had a dog, that would be its name. Besides, he was too tired to think of anything better.

Warm and dry, Gladstone settled down to his milk. The sound of his tongue lapping up the sweet liquid was interrupted only by a quiet purr. Watson sat considering the animal until it had finished, whereupon it crawled onto his lap and promptly went to sleep. The question now, of course, was how to reconcile Holmes and Mrs. Hudson to this idea . . .

Holmes was hard at work on an experiment when the doctor ascended the stairs, purring parcel in the crook of his arm. His flatmate mumbled a hello which cut off abruptly as he looked up and spotted the kitten.

"Watson. What on earth is that . . . creature?"

"It's a kitten, Holmes. I found it outside. Poor mite was half frozen to death."

The detective wore a look of almost comical confusion and horror. "Do you mean to keep it _here_?"

"I hardly have anywhere else to leave it. Besides, Gladstone won't cause any trouble. Will you, little fellow?" Watson tickled under the whiskered chin, which rose demandingly in response. Holmes just snorted doubtfully and went back to work. He did, however, direct the occasional glare in the direction of Watson's new pet. Eventually the kitten, seeming to sense Holmes's hostility, removed himself to the doctor's far more restful bedroom.

Their landlady was a bit more vocal in her disapproval.

"What do you mean, you have a _kitten_, doctor?"

"I found him outside on the stoop," explained Watson for what felt like the hundredth time. "I couldn't leave him there, he would have died. Really, he won't be any bother."

Mrs. Hudson fixed him with a steely gaze. "I have enough to put up with in your adventures, Dr. Watson. Not to mention Mr. Holmes's violin practice and in-door shooting and chemical experiments . . . I certainly don't need a cat running about and getting underfoot!"

At this moment, Gladstone woke from his nap in the doctor's bedroom and came wandering out to investigate the sound of this irate voice. Mrs. Hudson looked at the kitten, who peered at her through sleepy eyes and mewed inquisitively. With a valiant effort she maintained her stern expression, but even Dr. Watson could see that her heart had melted. No one can resist the sight of marmalade-colored fuzz with perked ears and bright eyes, especially when it hops awkwardly down the steps and purrs into one's stockings. Mrs. Hudson gave one last look to the doctor to let him know he was not forgiven for this unwelcome intruder. Then she scooped up Gladstone and, cuddling him to her breast, cooed "would you like some milk, my love? I'll bet you're hungry. Look at you skinny thing! We'll get you fattened up . . . " Gladstone was borne off to the kitchen for his second meal of the day. Watson sat down to his book with a chuckle. He should have known Mrs. Hudson was too kind-hearted to let a little thing like Gladstone live in the gutter.

As soon as Mrs. Hudson left, Holmes set down his beaker with a bang. "Kittens," he muttered darkly. "What next? A bulldog? Or maybe a giraffe, would that suit you?"

"I'm sure Gladstone will keep well away from your scientific apparatus," sighed his companion. "Besides, Mrs. Hudson seems to have agreed, and I hardly think you have a better objection than she."

The detective scowled. He refused to be reconciled to the idea that he now had a feline flatmate, and if the cat happened to curl up on his lap while he was smoking, well, he couldn't get the damn thing to move! _He _didn't know why it was purring. And he certainly had no idea how it had gotten that surreptitious bit of tuna, thank you very much. Perhaps his cheery mood was due to the fact that he got the last laugh: Watson hadn't been too observant of his pet. Gladstone was, in fact, a she.


	4. Chapter 4

**5 December prompt is from mrspencil and Ennui Enigma: Watson visits his old medical school.**

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_Halls stretching before him, long and white and pristine. A man was talking - Professor Crosby? Yes, surely that was he. He was just as Watson remembered: white lab coat, long articulate hands, hair going grey around the distinguished temples. And the students . . . No names came to mind, but the faces were the same. He remembered them all. That young man was loud and boisterous, but he scored perfectly on all his exams. That one came from a family of doctors; he was quiet and nervous and spent most of his time studying. The man over there attended against his parents' will - they had wanted him to be a barrister, though anyone could see his passion was caring for the sick._

_The lecture sounded familiar, too. They were talking about the woman's body, about the womb. A few students were chuckling nervously and making bad jokes in low tones. Poor lads, not quite men and still uncomfortable with the gentler sex. Professor Crosby gave the students a stern look and they hushed._

Why was he here? What about this day was so important? It was a demonstration day . . . Something had happened . . .

_Now he was in a room - a lab. There was a woman on the table, covered in a white sheet. A demonstration day . . . _

_". . . patient today is Lila Riddge is 24 years old." The professor's voice reached him through a fog. "She is eight months two weeks pregnant. Due to complications with the pregnancy we will be performing a Cesarean section."  
_

_The professor reached for a scalpel. Watson closed his eyes. _

Something had happened. What had happened?

_When he opened his eyes again there was blood. It covered the white sheet. Professor Crosby was calling for the bleeding to be staunched, but it kept coming and coming. The woman was still, so very still. And then the frantic rush slowed, the sheet was drawn over her face. Lila Riddge was gone. A whole medical school to save her, and she was gone. It was the first death Watson had witnessed first-hand._

Her hand had gone cold in his, but he didn't let go. He could never let go, not of this woman, not his Mary. He could not lose her.

But she, too, was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Today's prompt comes from I'm Nova: sick!fic**

**I spent a long time trying to think of clever and creative things to do with this (and actually came up with several ideas, which I might put into use in my regular drabbles) but finally I said, to hell with it. I don't know why I keep writing angsty Watson/Mary fics, but this banged around in my head until I couldn't ignore it.**

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She had always been so strong. When he left abruptly to go dashing about with Holmes, she only smiled tolerantly. After a long day of exhausting, heartbreaking work, she was there for him to lean against and unload on. Mary was not a woman to complain, and she was the sort that always looked after others' wellbeing before her own. It was part of why he loved her so much. So when the fever took hold, Mary did her best to stay strong. She did not complain to John. She did her best to keep up as she always had. There was no need to bother him with trivial problems like this.

. . .

Watson would always remember that day. He came home and kissed his wife on the cheek, and found that the skin was burning. She insisted it was nothing - really, John, nothing at all; but she did not protest when he sent her to bed. He berated himself aloud for not noticing sooner and as always, Mary was there, reassuring him that he was the best physician and husband anyone could hope for. It was not his fault, she said. He could have done nothing more. She had not wanted him to notice.

. . .

She stayed in bed the next morning. John suggested she get her rest, and she was too exhausted and weak to argue. Besides, it was cozy under the blankets, and she was grateful to be relieved of her burdens for just one day. Just one - then she would be back on her feet. Mary spent most of that afternoon in restless slumber. When Dr. Watson rested his hand against her brow she murmured but did not wake. The broth he brought her in the evening burned her throat and settled like acid in her stomach. All the coaxing and pleading in the world could not convince her to drink more than half of it. But the water was sweet and cold, and the icy glass felt good against her dry, cracked lips. She drank, and promised John she would be better tomorrow.

. . .

But she wasn't. He wanted to stay with her that day, but she insisted he go. "There are people who need you more than I," she said. "I'm fine." He did not believe her - she did not believe herself - but he went. Later he regretted going. It robbed him of precious moments with her, precious lucid moments.

. . .

When he returned there was an instant where she did not know him. She laughed it off as sleep-fog, but it struck fear into his heart. That evening again she drank broth and water. That night she began to talk to Sherlock Holmes.

The doctor listened in silence as she spoke of the pearls, the note, the mysterious disappearance of her father. If not for the rambling and confusion he could have been back in the Baker Street sitting room listening to her years ago. He held her hand and reminded her of his name and her surroundings, but she only smiled fondly and asked if he would be so kind as to escort her on the way to see the bizarre note-writer.

. . .

The delirium worsened. She called for him even as he sat by her, and the desperation in her voice tore at his soul. She no longer asked him to see his other patients; he would not have even if she did. He did everything there was to be done for her, and still it was not enough. The fever ravaged its scorching path through her mind and body. He could almost see the flesh melting away, the sanity slipping. He was losing her.

. . .

Watson would have done anything to make it end. Yet it was not a relief when she died. Not even the knowledge that her suffering was over could fill the black, empty void that she had once occupied. Every second it hit him afresh: Mary was gone. He, a doctor, could not cure her when she needed him. How could he hope to cure himself of her loss?

. . .

Physician, heal thyself.

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**Wow. Sorry that got a bit dark. I have a lot of not-so-happy thoughts weighing on my mind right now. I swear I'll get off the angst train as soon as it stops. Whenever that will be . . . **


	6. Oranges

7 December prompt is from cjnwriter: oranges.

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When he was a young boy Sherlock Holmes had been fascinated with oranges. He always associated the sweet, tangy fruit with Christmas, when his mother would put one in his stocking. For all of winter the house would smell of them. Mother said it was the smell of Christmas, but he had observed her hanging cloved oranges* in closets. Not that he ever complained; he loved the scent. It always reminded him of days spent in leisure: watching his mother expertly arrange boughs of fir and holly, sitting on his father's shoulders to hang ornaments high on the tree. He had no care for the holiday itself -a senseless, trivial thing. But it was the one time when he had a family, when he and Mycroft did not bicker and his father was not busy with work.

Years later Holmes had almost forgotten these times. They had been so long ago, and there were so many things to distract him. He had learned that Christmas was not magical; people got hurt and criminals committed crimes no matter how many sleigh bells jingled or carolers warbled. Watson accused him of having no Christmas spirit. It was true. Why would he bother with Christmas spirit when the body of that young girl was just found, when that man was just burgled? So Holmes did not notice the creeping approach of the holidays. He was oblivious to everything except the biting cold and his latest case.

Until, that is, he stepped into 221B Baker Street and found it filled with the fragrance of spice and oranges. All at once his mind, that neatly organized attic, rifled through its boxes and found his memories of childhood, carefully wrapped in tissue paper and set aside. They unfolded before him, clear and poignant as any play. Mrs. Hudson was surprised when she stepped into the entry hall and found herself being embraced; such a gesture was the best thanks Holmes could offer.


	7. Snowball Fight

From Book girl fan: 8. A snowball fight.

**I've already basically done this prompt, and I didn't want to be repetitive. After much dodging of the subject and wracking my brains, this is what I ended up with. Reviews are lovely, even if it's to tell me that this is way overdue :)**

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_In the snow a tiny girl with brown hair and bright eyes ducks, bouncing back up with tiny fistfuls of snow to fling at her two brothers. They laugh and return in kind. She claps her hands in glee as her coat and skirts are spattered with fluffy white flakes._

_"I want a snow fort!" she calls and falls to her knees, beginning to pack the snow near her into a wall of frozen white. The brothers grin. Anything for their little sister. Besides, snow forts make for the best snowball fights._

_The fort is a little shoddy, a little crumbly 'round the top, but it doesn't matter to them. Snowballs fly in every direction. A few even hit their desired target, and the victims inevitably fall to the ground in mock agony. The little girl is always especially delighted with theatrics and stops throwing missiles to giggle and brush snow off her wounded siblings' faces. Young faces are flushed with exertion and laughter; clothing is crusted with ice. They are having a grand time, until the door of the house opens and their mother's face appears._

_"Ellie Hudson! What have I told you about playing in the snow? It's not very ladylike. You come right inside!"_

_Ellie hangs her head. Her brothers look on sympathetically, unable to counter the authority of a parent. She will go inside now, probably to make gingerbread or lay out Christmas linens. They will stay outside and play, but it will not be the same without her._

. . . . . . . .

Mrs. Hudson rolls out gingerbread dough, humming softly to herself. In the snow outside a group of children are playing, hurling snowballs back and forth amid shouts of glee and outrage. One of the boys says loudly, "That's no fair! Girls can't play!" and the landlady smiles to herself as he is struck in the face with a well-aimed projectile. The thrower laughs and brushes off her gloves. That will show him, she thinks, and Mrs. Hudson agrees with her.

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**Also, something I forgot from yesterday's prompt: *cloved oranges are exactly what they sound like, oranges with cloves stuck in them. They smell amazing and can be very decorative.**


	8. Diamond

**First of all, let me say how *extremely* sorry I am for falling so far behind. I didn't mean to, but stuff has been going on and writing has been slow going. So, sorry! I'll try to be more prompt, but no guarantees.**

9 December prompt is from Hades Lord of the Dead: diamond

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From the diary of Irene Norton, nee Adler.

_I stare at the ring on my finger, twisting it round and round as if I will unlock answers by doing so. I remember so clearly the day he put it on my finger. I never thought such happiness could be mine, but it was - in spite of my past, in spite of Mr. Holmes, in spite of everything. "It's so beautiful," I said to him. "Like you," he replied, and kissed me. That moment was more precious than all the diamonds money could buy. I knew then that I had a chance for a new start. I promised myself I would not waste it, nor let this priceless opportunity slip through my fingers. Godfrey Norton loved me - loves me - and I will not let him go._

_And yet the ring still goes round and round, and he still is not home. The police will not help me, this I know. Who would listen to a wife who reports her husband missing after only one day? They would say I am being foolish and hysterical. Maybe I am. Yet I could not bear for anything to happen to him. They would make excuses - perhaps he got delayed, perhaps he forgot to send a message; no. I know better. Godfrey would not leave me like this._

_Round and round. There was another man there, the day that Godfrey put this ring on my finger. Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I have not thought about him in some time. He played a good game, but it has ended and I have had other things to concern myself with. Now I recall him in stark detail - the sharp eyes, the keen face. Mr. Holmes could not best me, but perhaps he can best whoever had taken my husband from me._


End file.
